


All This Love, All This Joy

by I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them/pseuds/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally, when they say they aren't interested, that is the truth. Neither of them are quite sure when that changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This Love, All This Joy

That first meeting was hardly love at first sight. Oh, there was intrigue, certainly. But it was just that Sherlock liked to know all about everyone he met, so he did a brief evaluation, and cataloged the information in his mind palace to look at later. And John was just fascinated by this bizarre man who seemed to know his whole history. And John wasn’t immediately scared away, so Sherlock deemed him a worthy flat mate, so he gave the name and address. But it wasn’t love. Because no one falls in love that quickly, especially when one of the people is not gay and the other pretends to be asexual.

John said that Sherlock’s deductions were amazing, and it wasn’t anything but the truth. It wasn’t flattery. Because John was not gay, and even if he was, he wouldn’t fall for anyone that fast.

Sherlock allowing John to come with him to the crime scene was just to show him what he was getting into. It wasn’t to impress him. It was just that “flat mates should know the worst about each other” and everyone else seemed to think that everything about Sherlock was bad, and solving crime was who he was, and he wanted John to see it. And when John didn’t push him away, instead smiling and complimenting him, Sherlock was happy for the change.

When Angelo thought that John was Sherlock’s date, John wasn’t quite sure how to react. He wasn’t angry or annoyed or anything. He was just surprised. It was genuinely the first time the thought crossed his mind. Did they really look like a couple? He had never been accused of being gay, because, well, he wasn’t. No one ever even thought he was, so why did Sherlock present this new thing? John would just brush it off, but Angelo was so completely convinced. And of course then John made it worse, by asking Sherlock about girlfriends and boyfriends – innocent curiosity – and then that stupid thing about it being good that he was unattached and dear God, did Sherlock think he was asking him out? “No, I wasn’t asking, no.” Ignoring that Sherlock was the smartest and most intriguing man he’d met. Thankful when the suspected killer showed up to end the awkward conversation. Sherlock didn’t know what to think either. He had certainly never been accused of being in a relationship with anyone. And when he said he was married to his work, it was true, at least at the time. He didn’t need or want a relationship, but he did think he could grow to like John (as a friend, obviously). When John accepted the “could be dangerous” without even thinking about it – effectively saying that yes, God yes he did want to be a part of Sherlock’s life – Sherlock knew he had found someone special. And he didn’t know why John accepted him, but John didn’t know either. He just found Sherlock fascinating. He was enthralled by Sherlock’s deductions and intelligence and unorthodox methods, and truthfully, the cheekbones and hair and eyes never once factored in. He wasn’t gay, after all. It wasn’t denial. It was truth. And Sherlock wasn’t interested either. He didn’t care about relationships, he cared about the fact that someone was willing to be in his company. 

When John shot the cabbie for Sherlock, it was obvious that there was a shift. You don’t generally kill for someone you’ve only just met. But it was not that they’d fallen in love, because that would be ridiculous. It was just that Sherlock was something special, and there was no way John could go back to life the way it was before Sherlock – boring. And he liked seeing the look of awe and wonder on Sherlock’s face when he realized who the shooter was. And when they were walking off giggling? Well. Neither of them laughed like that with anyone else, and that was something to hold on to.

 

“My friend, John Watson.”  
“Friend?”  
“Colleague.”  
When Sherlock introduced John as a friend, John was pleased by this. But the man had that expression, that irritating smirk like he was so sure they must be a couple, and John degraded himself to colleague. And if Sherlock seemed a little hurt, neither of them mentioned it.

When John returned from a job interview to find that Sherlock had asked for a pen an hour ago, it showed that Sherlock had gotten used to having John in his flat and in his life. Sherlock really liked John, and couldn’t imagine him not being there. So he just assumed that he was never gone. But it wasn’t that he loved him. It was just nice to have a friend for once.

When Sherlock turned John around to help his memory, maybe he didn’t need to touch him so much, and maybe there was an easier way, but he wanted to make sure they had the pattern right, and visualization was the best way he knew. Maybe, maybe spinning him around wasn’t entirely necessary, but oh well. It was just Sherlock being himself, nothing more. They were just friends, after all, and that was why John endured it. (Because he wasn’t gay, and so he felt nothing whatsoever when Sherlock put his hands on his shoulders.)

When they were in the museum, and John was with Soo Lin, of course he should have stayed with her when he heard the gunshots. But Sherlock was up there, and he was worried about him. And when the woman was killed because of his foolish impulse to check on Sherlock, of course he felt bad. Terrible, really, but he couldn’t dwell on it because he was just relieved that his friend was all right.

"I need to get some air, we're going out tonight."  
"Actually, I've got a date."  
"What?"  
"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"  
"That's what I was suggesting."  
Sherlock wasn’t actually suggesting a date, because he wasn’t interested in John as more than a friend. That was not what he meant when he said that. It was how John interpreted it, but it wasn’t what he meant. (At least, not entirely. Not consciously.) Sherlock just thought that technically, John’s definition of a date was exactly what he had been suggesting. And John’s response (“No it wasn’t, at least I hope not”) was not untruthful. John had already been dealing with people (Angelo, Sebastian, Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, his sister, his blog…) thinking they were a couple since the day he moved in, and he was struggling to prove that it wasn’t true (part of the reason he was going on the date to begin with). If Sherlock thought it was true (or even, God forbid, wanted it to be true), John wouldn’t be able to deal with it. Because he didn’t want that, because he wasn’t gay, and he didn’t think he could ever get away from it if Sherlock, the brilliant deduction maker, thought he was.

When Sherlock responded poorly to Sarah being there, it was absolutely not because he was jealous. He wasn’t jealous. He just didn’t particularly like her (although she was significantly better than most of the women John flirted with). And she was distracting John from helping him.

When John was kidnapped, Sherlock’s panic had nothing to do with love. He was just worried about losing his only friend, and he was well aware that it was his fault, and even Sherlock Holmes is capable of feeling guilt occasionally.

“Coming?”  
“If you want me to.”  
“Of course. I’d be lost without my blogger.”  
That didn’t mean anything either. Sherlock would be lost without John, but that was just because he liked having a friend. He wasn’t in love with him. (Sherlock was married to his work and John was not gay.)

Maybe it wasn’t necessary to make John get Sherlock’s phone from within his pocket. But he wasn’t deliberately trying to get physical proximity to him. (Not interested.)

 

“You’re still hanging round him.”  
“Yeah, well…”  
“Opposites attract, I suppose.”  
Donovan was wrong, like everyone was. They were just friends. John’s response (“No, we’re not…) was not a lie.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and even if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”  
John wasn’t exactly making Sherlock into a hero. Of course not – he did recognize that there were several rather admirable qualities about Sherlock, and had grown to care rather deeply about him, but he didn’t see him as some kind of hero to be worshiped. He knew Sherlock had flaws and was rather sociopathic. He was just annoyed because he was disappointed in that moment, because he had thought he’d managed to change Sherlock somewhat, for the better, and that he might care at least a little, have some regard for human life, to at least have the decency to not see it as a game. But he wasn’t disappointed because of Sherlock being his hero. (That would imply that he was in love with him, and he wasn’t.)

“Let him go, or I will kill you.”  
John was naturally protective, and he was going to protect his friend. It was nothing about love.

Sherlock’s distress when John was being used by Moriarty at the pool wasn’t love. But it wasn’t quite friendship either.  
The same could be said for John grabbing Moriarty and threatening to blow them both up, and the look of panic in his eyes when the laser point landed on Sherlock.  
“I’ll burn the heart out of you.”  
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”  
“But we both know that’s not quite true.”  
If anyone was thinking of John, no one mentioned it.  
If either of them noticed that something seemed a little different as Sherlock pulled the bomb off of John, overly concerned for his well-being, neither of them mentioned it.  
Although John couldn’t quite resist saying, “I’m glad no one saw that. You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”  
“People do little else” was one of the truest things said.  
If their laughter was a little forced, neither of them mentioned it.  
If either of them noticed that John wasn’t meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he said it, neither of them mentioned it.

 

“Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”  
If Sherlock noticed the way Irene’s eyes flicked to John, or the way John blushed and choked out an uncomfortable fake laugh, he didn’t mention it.

John wasn’t jealous of Irene Adler. That would be ridiculous. After all, he wasn’t in love with Sherlock, so why would he care if Sherlock and Irene were interested in each other?

Sherlock wasn’t remotely interested in Irene, but it wasn’t because he loved John. He just wasn’t interested in either of them. Although if he was interested, it would be John. He could admit that. It didn’t mean anything to admit that, because it was completely hypothetical. (He was almost certain.)

“Are you jealous?”  
“We’re not a couple.”  
“Yes, you are.”  
They weren’t. Were they? No, of course not. He would have noticed. He wasn’t as observant as Sherlock, but that’s the kind of thing you notice. No, they were still just friends. Irene didn’t know what she was talking about. He’d heard dozens of people think they were a couple. This was no different. So why was he so thrown off now? Why was he suddenly overanalyzing those three words? What had changed?

“If anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”  
It wasn’t a lie. He said it confidently, to convince both of them. It was not a lie. He was not gay, and he did not love Sherlock Holmes.  
If she didn’t believe him, she didn’t mention it.

 

“Is yours a snorer?”  
“Do you have any crisps?”  
If Sherlock heard him, and noticed that John had given up on denying that they were a couple, he didn’t mention it.

“You, being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”  
That was not John’s way of saying he was attracted to Sherlock. He wasn’t. Well. He was willing to admit that Sherlock was an attractive person. But he wasn’t interested. That still wasn’t a lie. He still wasn’t gay. The statement about the cheekbones and such was just an observation.

“I don’t have friends.”  
John’s dismay was the same as that of anyone whose best friend denounced them. His hurt was based entirely on friendship and a feeling of betrayal. And that was the full truth.

“I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.”  
John was special. Sherlock needed him. Couldn’t stand him being angry with him. Needed his friend (I’d be lost without my blogger). They were still not a couple. But it was gradually getting harder to say that they were just friends. But if John heard the passionate intensity in Sherlock’s voice, he didn’t mention it.

 

“Should have gone with him. People will think…”  
“I don’t care what people think.”  
“You’d care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong.”  
“No that would just make them stupid or wrong.”  
“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re…”  
A silence as they make eye contact. “That I am what?”  
“A fraud.”  
“You’re worried they’re right.”  
“What?”  
“You’re worried they’re right about me.”  
“No.”  
“That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well.”  
“No I’m not.”  
“Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can’t you see what’s going on?”  
A pause, then, softly, “No, I know you’re for real.”  
At this point, they were far too busy to be worrying about whether or not they were in love. If they were to be asked about it, they would still say they weren’t. But the fact remained that they were the most important people in each other’s lives.

“Take my hand.”  
“Now people will definitely talk.”  
The thing was, in that moment John really couldn’t care less what people said. He tried to tell himself he didn’t feel anything, that Sherlock’s hand in his didn’t feel like the most right thing in the world, but he couldn’t quite bring the arguments to his mind, so he just focused on running.  
For just a moment, Sherlock thought holding hands with John felt natural and right and good too. But he pushed it out of his mind, because a plan was forming in his mind, and feelings like that would have no place in it.

If there was a moment, just a fleeting moment, as they were trapped on either side of a fence, hands cuffed together, faces inches apart, when each of them truly thought the other was going to instigate a kiss, neither of them mentioned it. If either of them wanted that to happen, they didn’t mention that either. Because it was really not the time.  
And because it wasn’t possible. Was it? John wasn’t gay. Was he? And Sherlock was married to his work. Right? They weren’t in love. Were they?

“You machine.”  
“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”  
“No. Friends protect people.”  
When John walked out of the lab, Sherlock felt a piercing sensation in the heart he always said didn’t exist. Because it did exist. Sherlock was not a machine, he was not a sociopath, he was just a human, and he had feelings. He felt more for John and Mrs. Hudson than John could ever know. And it hurt so much to watch John leave, thinking he was a monster. John was so disappointed in him. He had told John, long ago, that he wasn’t a hero. But John’s was the only approval he needed in life. He didn’t need the police or the newspapers or his clients. He just needed John. And Sherlock, whose plan was about to be put in effect, knew that he might never get John’s approval again. He had solved the case, figured out how to beat Moriarty. But this, he was certain, would not be considered amazing or fantastic. But he had to do it anyway. This would ruin him. Destroy his reputation, maybe end his life. But otherwise, Moriarty would go on killing people. John had taught Sherlock to care about human lives. So for John, he would give up everything.  
That wasn’t necessarily love. But in this case, although he would never admit it, it probably was.

“Your friends will die if you don’t.”  
“John.”  
There really was no point anymore in pretending there wasn’t a reason for John to immediately come to mind.

“Hello?”  
“John.”  
“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”  
“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.”  
“No, I’m coming in.”  
“Just do as I ask. Please.”  
“Where?”  
“Stop there.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”  
“Oh God.”  
“I ... I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this.”  
“What’s going on?”  
“An apology. It’s all true.”  
“Wh-what?”  
“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”  
“Why are you saying this?”  
“I’m a fake.”  
God, it hurt, it hurt Sherlock to say it, to lie to John, and God, it hurt John to hear it.  
“Sherlock ...”  
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”  
“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”  
“Nobody could be that clever.”  
“You could.”  
When tears started dripping down his face, they were genuine. Sherlock hadn’t cried since he was nine years old, but he was crying now. What had he done to deserve John, someone so wonderfully loyal? Never had John doubted him, and he was so grateful for that. And now, when he was finally recognizing John’s importance, he had to leave him.  
“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”  
“No. All right, stop it now.”  
“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”  
“All right.”  
They both lifted up their hands, as if reaching for each other, trying to cross the gap between them (too far, why couldn’t they be closer, why did they have to do this from so far away?), trying to touch, and trying to recall the feeling of their hands entwined.  
“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”  
“Do what?”  
“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”  
It wasn’t until that moment that John fully understood what was happening. No. His voice grew shaky as he prayed he misunderstood.  
“Leave a note when?”  
“Goodbye, John.”  
From somewhere deep in Sherlock’s subconscious, a quote from Peter Pan of all things popped into his head and wouldn’t leave, “Never say goodbye because saying goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting,” and he wanted to scream because that was so not helpful, and why the hell had that not been deleted from his brain?  
“No. Don’t.”  
Then he threw the phone down, staring ahead in a daze, and then he was jumping, and then he was falling, and in the distance he heard his only friend screaming, and all he could think of was John John John John John.  
“No. SHERLOCK!”  
John could feel Sherlock’s name ripping from him, and he ran forward in a daze, needing to get to him, and all he could think of was Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. 

They had been falling in love for a long time. But Sherlock didn’t notice he was in love with John until he was in the air halfway between the roof and the sidewalk, when suddenly he realized that he had just jumped off a building and given up everything he had worked for to keep John from getting shot. (Friends protect people.) Oh, he thought, oh. Sentiment. A chemical defect found in the losing side. Well, there he was, losing to Moriarty, because he had succumbed to sentiment. He understood, suddenly, everything he had ever heard about love. Because he was about to fall to his (fake) death and John was still screaming and he was in love with him and it hurt.  
“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.  
No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.  
Please, let me just ...  
Jesus, no.  
God, no.”  
John, for his part, didn’t realize he was in love with Sherlock until he was kneeling beside his friend’s body, two fingers pressed against the place where a pulse should be, looking into eyes that shouldn’t be that pale and unseeing, looking at blood on the sidewalk, hearing but not listening to people talking in the background. He’s my friend. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. And John was in love with him, and he was beginning to realize that but he still couldn’t come to terms with it. That wouldn’t come until later, because at the moment he was most definitely in shock (why wasn’t anyone bringing him a blanket?) and his friend was dead so now was really the worst possible time for him to realize he was in love with that friend. So he pushed any romantic thoughts out of his mind, because it hurt.

“There’s stuff you wanted to say, but didn’t say it. Say it now.”  
It should be easy. She was his therapist – he was supposed to be able to tell her things. Now would be a perfect time to day it – “I was in love with him.” But he hadn’t even admitted it to himself yet, so he couldn’t admit it to her.  
“No. Sorry. I can’t.”  
He would go on pretending to be one hundred percent not gay.

“You ... you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Okay. No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be ... dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”  
It hurt.  
John was in love with Sherlock, and with every word he said he knew that, in every fiber of his being. But he couldn’t say it yet.  
It hurt.

And Sherlock, who was absolutely not dead, stood under a tree, watching John crying, and he loved John more than anything in the world, and all he wanted was to go to him.  
That was the one thing he couldn’t do.  
It hurt.

 

When John suffers from nightmares, far worse than his old ones, he wakes up screaming, and a few minutes later Mrs. Hudson appears at his door with biscuits and a gentle smile. “It’ll be all right,” she says. “I know it’s hard to lose someone you love, but I’m sure it will get better.”  
“It’s Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson. He’s irreplaceable. How can it get better?”  
“I know. I know there really isn’t anyone like him. Just do know I’m here for you if you need anything.”  
“I know. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”  
If John notices the tears welling up in his landlady’s eyes, he doesn’t mention them.

When Lestrade comes by to apologize, John almost punches him, but then sees the tired, miserable expression on his face, sees that he looks like he’s aged five years overnight, sees the redness around his eyes like he’s been crying, and instead of hitting him he just sighs and makes tea for them both. “He was my friend too,” Lestrade says softly.  
“Yeah, I know.”  
“Sometimes I wondered if he knew that.”  
“I’m sure he did. He knew everything.”  
“That’s true.” A pause, then, “I was just doing my job, you know. I didn’t want to believe any of it, but that’s the kind of thing that I can’t just ignore if it might be true. Orchestrating murders and kidnapping, John, that’s serious.”  
“Yeah. I get it, Greg. I wish I didn’t and could just blame you for all this, but I do get it.”  
“His brother called me.”  
John snorts. “I don’t want to hear about Mycroft Holmes.”  
“No, I can’t imagine you would. I didn’t either, almost hung up on him, but I let him talk. You know, he helped me get Sherlock sober. They may have had some issues, but they were still brothers. Mycroft’s miserable about this. Blames himself as much as you blame him.”  
“Good. He should feel guilty. He led to the destruction of his own brother.”  
“Look, John, I know you’re upset. I’m upset, and I wasn’t in-”  
He breaks himself off, and John’s eyes narrow. “What?”  
“Nothing. I just meant that you were closer to him than anyone else. I’ve known Sherlock for a long time, and I never saw him let anyone get that close to him. You were the closest two friends I have ever seen. So I can’t even imagine what this is like for you.”  
“You know, at the beginning you told me something. You said ‘Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one,’ do you remember?”  
“Yeah, of course.”  
“I think we were lucky.”  
Greg looks at John for a moment, and then sighs. “Yeah, I saw that too. You were making him into a good man. It’s just a shame no one else saw that.”  
“Fucking Anderson.”  
He chuckles. “Yeah.” Then he leaves, patting John on the shoulder and saying, “Take care of yourself, mate.”

When John is talking to his sister, he finally realizes completely what everyone else already knew. Harry has stopped by at 221B, sober, and John hasn’t been able to get rid of her. “Everyone’s worried about you, John,” she says. “You haven’t posted anything on your blog for months. I ran into your therapist the other day and she said you’ve missed your last five appointments. All the newspapers have been talking about you punching that reporter who asked about Sherlock. Your landlady says that you’ve barely been outside and that you’re having nightmares. Are you all right, John?”  
“Obviously not, Harry, Jesus, does it seem like I’m all right?”  
“No, John, it doesn’t. You’ve got beer bottles all over the floor in the kitchen, you fucking hypocrite, after being so upset about my drinking. Have you even been shaving?”  
“Why does it even matter?”  
“Why does it matter? Fuck, John. Are you even my brother? You have to go on living. Just because he’s gone – do you think he wanted you to do this to yourself? Mope around in your flat?”  
“How am I supposed to get over him, Harry? He was my best friend, and he’s dead.”  
She sighs. She looks at him thoughtfully, then hesitates, like she’s worried he’s going to explode on her, before saying, “Look, John, don’t get upset with me for this, I’ve got to ask. From the way you’re acting now, and from the stuff in your blog, and from the way they talked about you in the papers… John, were you… were you in love with him?”  
A long time ago, he wouldn’t have had to think about it. “No,” he would have said automatically. “I’m not gay.” But even before The Fall, as he’s come to think of it (since thinking of it as a jump is too painful), the denials had been feeling less and less truthful. He pauses before answering (a long enough pause that she probably already knows the answer) and thinks about it. He hadn’t let himself think about it before. That would hurt too much. And maybe he had always known the answer, and just been hiding it from himself.  
He remembers their eyes meeting across the lab at their first meeting. He remembers Sherlock knowing everything about him. He remembers being awestruck by the deductions. He remembers running after Sherlock, remembers the thrill that came with being around him. He remembers feeling personally offended when Sebastian offended Sherlock. He remembers dozens of people thinking they were a couple – maybe seeing what they couldn’t. He remembers feeling fiercely protective of Sherlock. He remembers giggling together and being happier than either of them had been for a long time. He remembers how distressed Sherlock had been the two times John had been kidnapped. He remembers how frantically Sherlock had pulled the bomb off him. He remembers Irene Adler, and maybe he had been just a little jealous of her and just hadn’t admitted it. He remembers the moment he stopped saying they weren’t a couple – he had told himself at the time that it just wasn’t worth wasting time over, but now he wonders if it wasn’t something else. He remembers worrying when people started thinking Sherlock was a fraud. He remembers how they were the most important people in each other’s lives. He remembers the feeling of Sherlock’s hand entwined with his, he remembers the moment he thought they might kiss and how scared it made him that he wouldn’t have minded. He remembers seeing Sherlock jump and feeling like his entire world was collapsing. He remembers begging for a miracle, because he had been so alone, and he owed Sherlock so much. He realizes that he can admit now that he must have been in love with Sherlock.  
“Yes,” he tells Harry. “Yeah, I guess I really was. Shit. I was. I am. I love him.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had always been quicker than John to come to conclusions. He had probably fallen in love with John before John fell in love with him, and he admitted to himself that he was in love before John did. Because when he was in the air, he had already come to terms with it.  
That just made it harder, afterward. Because Sherlock wanted so much to go to John and give him that one miracle he wanted, and hold him and say, “I’m not dead and I am in love with you.” But he couldn’t. He had to take down Moriarty’s web. That meant staying away from Baker Street for as long was necessary, staying away from John for as long as he was in danger. It might kill him for real. But it was necessary. That hurt.

Sherlock contacts Mycroft after nine months. Mycroft walks into his office after lunch one day to find Sherlock, alive and bored-looking, in his chair.  
If they were normal brothers, they would hug. But they aren’t normal (“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”) and also Mycroft is less than thrilled to learn that he was lied to. So they don’t hug, don’t even really acknowledge that there is anything strange about this situation.  
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mycroft says drily, sinking into an extra seat.  
“No,” the detective replies, twiddling a pen in one hand and making a chain of paper clips in the other, “You probably shouldn’t.”  
He looks up then, for the first time since the door opened, and his eyes narrow at his brother. “You are, though. You had no idea. You thought I was dead.”  
“Sherlock, what was I supposed to think?” Mycroft snaps. “You gave me no indication beforehand. I didn’t know you were planning to do that, for real or as a trick. You haven’t contacted me until now. I saw your body and it certainly appeared to be you. Every sign indicated that you were dead. Maybe, maybe, I would have had some doubts, but then there was John, and he was thoroughly convinced. Maybe if he had been less distressed I would have wondered if something was wrong. The thought did cross my mind, you know. Oh, this is Sherlock; he could fake this kind of thing. But then I thought to myself, No, he wouldn’t lie to John, John would know about a plan like that. This is real. So I just went along with it, and grieved for my brother, who was dead, and yet HERE YOU ARE!”  
The last words he almost shouts, slamming his hand on the desk, and Sherlock visibly flinches, dropping the paper clips on the ground. When Mycroft mentioned John, Sherlock had winced a bit. But when Mycroft’s cool, stony mask slides away, showing the pain and anger and confusion that was really there, Sherlock looks like a young child.  
“Mycroft-”  
“Oh, don’t try to apologize, Sherlock. Don’t insult me like that, we both know you won’t mean it, and I want you to either mean it or stay quiet. Just give me an explanation, Sherlock, and it better be a damn good one.”  
“It was Moriarty,” Sherlock whispers, looking like a wounded animal, “He told me that I had to kill myself.”  
“Oh, and you just did it? He told you to jump off a roof and you did it?”  
“It’s not that simple!” Sherlock is suddenly a lot less small-looking. “If you want an explanation, let me give it to you. He said that my friends would die if I didn’t. He had snipers, Mycroft, three snipers, three targets. If his people didn’t see me die, they were ready to shoot. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. And John. They were safe, he said, as long as he was alive. He told me they were safe as long as he was alive, Mycroft, and then he shot himself through the head. I had no choice.”  
“How noble of you. And how ironic. Sentiment, destroying the least sentimental person alive.”  
“Yes, I know, caring isn’t an advantage. Shut up, Mycroft.”  
“Oh, I am not judging you for it, Sherlock, just pointing out a fact. A few years ago, you would never have destroyed your entire reputation and life to save anyone. He has changed you.”  
There is no point in asking who he is. They both know it’s John.  
“Don’t, Mycroft. Please.”  
His brother ignores him, says, “Don’t you think you should tell him you’re alive?”  
“No. I’m only telling you because I need your help. I can’t tell him. I still have to track down Moriarty’s people, destroy his web.”  
“He would come with you, you know. He would be glad to help.”  
“I know that. That’s why I can’t tell him.”  
“Sherlock, he’s miserable.”  
“It’s an unacceptable risk. I didn’t jump off a building to save his life only to lose him to an assassin a few months later.”  
“But you will go back to him when you’re finished?”  
“Of course I will, Mycroft. Don’t be stupid.”  
The elder Holmes sighs and leans back in his chair, looking at his brother. Then, almost reluctantly, he asks, “Are you in love with him?”  
Sherlock looks at him with the same Do-I-really-need-to-answer-that-question?-face that he has given so many of the idiots at the Yard. Then he softens and looks at the pen in his hand. “Evidently.”

John goes back to his cane. If anyone realizes that it has everything to do with Sherlock, no one mentions it.

Sherlock travels to every country in the world, imprisoning or killing Moriarty’s contacts. He keeps a picture of John in his pocket – the inner pocket of his coat, right next to his heart.  
Sherlock’s mission is hard, more difficult than anything he’s ever done in his life. More than a few times, he thinks about giving up. Everyone already thinks he’s dead. He could just stop, right now, and no one would even know. Thinking about John – looking at the faded photograph, remembering everything they did together, imagining John’s voice and his ridiculous giggle and his eyes and his sense of humor and his rules about experiments in the fridge and his jumpers and his everything – is all that keeps him going.

Mrs. Hudson dies a year and a half in. John doesn’t know what he did to deserve all this loss, all this pain. He goes to her funeral, and he gives a eulogy that really should have been given by Sherlock, and he sobs at her grave, and he gets his therapist to increase the dosage on his antidepressants.  
Sherlock is in Kazakhstan, and finds out about Mrs. Hudson by email from both Mycroft and Molly Hooper. He can’t be there, and he wants to be there so much. And he just wants to scream at her, to scold her for dying because he was supposed to save her, and if she’s dead then what was the point of all this? He goes out and finds three of Moriarty’s contacts, and kills them, making it as painful as he can. He thinks it will make him feel better, but as he looks at the anguish in their eyes he thinks of John and his wonderful moral compass, and he just feels worse.

In the second year, John tries to date. Of course, none of the relationships work out, because all of them inevitably ask about Sherlock, and he doesn’t want to be some novelty boyfriend that they have because of his status as “friend of that fake detective guy who killed himself”. It wouldn’t work out anyway, because none of them are him and they can’t compare because no one can compare to Sherlock Holmes. He gives up on dating after three months.

Sherlock spends some time in America. He runs into Irene Adler. She is happy to see him. He doesn’t want to deal with her, but he needs a place to stay, so he tries to endure her. She tries to kiss him after a week, and the next day he has her arrested for her involvement with Moriarty.  
“I suppose it’s John, then,” she sighs as she’s handcuffed.  
“Obviously,” he says drily, and then walks away and gets a flight to Australia.

In the third year, John goes to Sherlock’s grave, as he has every year on the anniversary. He falls asleep there. Sherlock, who has made sure to be in London on the anniversary each year (because Mycroft had told him that this day is John’s version of a danger night), watches over him all night. At one point he dares to brush a finger over John’s cheek. John murmurs, “Sherlock,” and the detective holds his breath, thinking he’s been caught, but realizes that John is still asleep. In the morning, Sherlock whispers, “Soon, John,” and leaves before John can wake up.  
Leaving is hard, and it hurts, but he knows it will be over soon.

 

When Sherlock kills the last operative, he knows he should be happy, excited, but he just feels a tired sort of relief. He texts Mycroft, and buys a plane ticket home, and looks at his picture of John, and he manages a very weak smile because finally he’s going home.  
On the long plane ride, he thinks of nothing but John. John’s smile, John’s hand in his, John’s punch, John John John. He doesn’t know how John will react. He has 16 different possible scenarios planned out in his head, but he knows John might not follow any of them, because he never has been quite able to predict John Watson. Ultimately, he decides he doesn’t really care what happens – he’ll tolerate punches or slaps or hugs or kisses or swearing or screaming or fainting or anything that John might do, anything, because he just wants to see him again.

When John opens the door to the flat and sees Sherlock, his mouth opens and closes several times before he steps backwards to let him in. They stand in the living room, several feet apart (too far) and stare at each other. Sherlock clears his throat. “John,” he says, softly, cautiously.  
“Sherlock,” says John, his voice less shaky than he feels. “You’re dead,” he says after a pause.  
“Apparently not,” says Sherlock, stating the obvious for maybe the first time in his life.  
John doesn’t know what to say to that, and they enter another long moment of silence.  
Sherlock is overcome by a powerful urge to kiss John.  
John is overcome by a powerful urge to punch Sherlock.  
They move forward at the same moment, and if it was a movie they would be in slow motion, and if it was a romance novel they would be moving at a hundred miles an hour, and it’s neither of those, it’s real life, although it still seems more than a bit surreal, and so they move at a normal speed, more or less.  
They don’t attack each other. They don’t kiss. They just fall into each other’s arms and hold each other like they never want to let go, because they don’t.  
And Sherlock says “John John John John John John John” and John says “Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock” and Sherlock says “I’m here, I’m here,” and John says “You’re not dead,” and Sherlock says “No, I’m not dead, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m here,” and John says “Never leave me like that ever again,” and Sherlock says “No, never, never John, I’m not leaving, I’m here, I won’t leave, never,” and they are both just a little beside themselves, and John might be in shock and maybe Sherlock is too, but neither of them mention it because they can’t because right now John is just making sure Sherlock is real and Sherlock is just delighting in the fact that he’s home and they are just so happy to see each other. And John is also very angry and very confused, and Sherlock is kind of in pain because John is pressed against a rather nasty bruise, but they are both there, they are both alive, and in this moment nothing else matters. 

There’s talking later, of course. John wants to know how he did it. Sherlock tells him, and John doesn’t really listen because he’s just soaking in that voice that’s been gone for so long. He wants to know why he did it. Sherlock tells him, and John does listen to that, and soaks in that Sherlock did it for him, everything for him, and they are silent for a long time after that. John is still angry – because Sherlock made him watch him die, because he didn’t tell him he was alive, because he wasn’t there for Mrs. Hudson, because he was gone so long, because John was so alone – but he’s less upset the longer they sit there, less upset because of the fact that he got his miracle, less upset because of the reason for it all. They sit on the couch, knees brushing against each other, hands clinging to teacups, and there is talking, but then there is silence, because that’s just as good.

Telling other people is harder, because other people aren’t in love with Sherlock, so they don’t receive the news nearly as well. Lestrade, of course, is first. He is called to Mycroft’s office. He looks more than a little confused when he walks into the room, where Mycroft and John are already sitting.  
“Ah, Gregory,” says Mycroft. “Thank you for joining us.”  
“Yeah, of course,” says Lestrade. He glances at John. “What’s going on?”  
“You might want to sit down,” John says helpfully. When Lestrade takes one of the other chairs, John says, “Look, this is going to come as a bit of a shock – sure shocked the hell out of me – and it will probably seem a little far-fetched, but it’s completely true.”  
“Ok,” says Lestrade warily.  
“The thing is, Sherlock, when he died, didn’t actually. Didn’t die. He. Um. He faked it. He’s alive.”  
“What?”  
“Yeah, I know. But, I mean, when you think about it, it’s Sherlock. If anyone could fake his death it would be him, right?”  
“But… but then where’s he been all this time?”  
“Everywhere,” Mycroft cuts in smoothly. “All over the world. He’s been taking down Moriarty’s web. He returned as soon as he was done. Every single contact of Moriarty’s is either in prison or dead.”  
“So where is he now?”  
John glances at Mycroft, who nods almost imperceptibly, then gets up and walks over to a door to an adjoining room. He opens it, and says, “Come on in.”  
Sherlock walks in, and Lestrade stands up. “Well, fuck,” he says calmly. “You’re definitely not dead.”  
“Not at all,” Sherlock says, equally calm.  
Then Lestrade calmly punches Sherlock in the face. Sherlock staggers back and crashes into John, who manages to hold them both upright. Mycroft quickly moves around his desk and grabs Lestrade to keep him from lunging forward again. “I really don’t think that’s quite the best way of handling this, Gregory,” he says softly.  
“Right, yeah, I know. It’s ok, Mycroft, you can let go. I’m not going to hit him again; I just wanted to get that out of my system.” Mycroft hesitantly takes his hand off Lestrade’s arm. Lestrade says, “Look, Sherlock, I’m not going to say I’m sorry for that. I daresay I’ve had plenty of times in the past when I’ve wanted to punch you and resisted it. And then you went and faked your fucking death, and I think that warrants at least a punch. I mean, you made me temporarily lose my job. You really hurt Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. You made Anderson and Donovan feel rotten about themselves – although you probably don’t feel bad about that part of it. You destroyed John. I frankly don’t care what your reasons were, because it was a bloody awful thing to do. So I’m not going to apologize to you for punching you.”  
Sherlock nods, like he’d expected nothing less. John, who hasn’t taken his hand off of Sherlock’s back (not that anyone mentions it), says, “Greg, I was angry too, but if you listen to his reason it’s pretty hard to stay mad.”  
Of course, once everyone sits back down and Sherlock explains himself again, John is right, Lestrade instantly forgives Sherlock. “Look, I did mean what I said before, but I’m also really glad to see you, you know that right?”  
“Well, of course you are. You’ve been solving 30 percent fewer cases without me.”  
“Yeah, you know, that really isn’t the only reason, but now that you said that I’m not going to say anything else nice about you.”  
The rest of the conversation is a lot better, and it’s clear that everything is going to be fine.

Life takes a while to get back to normal. There is a media circus around Sherlock for over a month. It’s hard, coming back to life, especially when everyone wants to know how he did it, and what he was doing while he was away, and why he came back now, and what is happening between him and John, and how he feels about the people who still think he was a fraud, even though Lestrade and Mycroft cleared his name years ago.  
John is always by his side. Neither of them mention that things are obviously different between them. Sometimes John looks up from his blog and sees Sherlock watching him, and oddly contemplative expression on his face. Sometimes Sherlock finishes a deduction, and he looks over at John, and John is staring up at him with a small smile and a look of rapture. Sometimes their hands touch for slightly longer than necessary when John hands Sherlock his tea. Sometimes when they’re talking they hold eye contact for slightly too long. Sometimes when they finish a chase and fall gasping against the wall in the hallway, they hold each other a little tighter than they used to. Sometimes when Anderson insults Sherlock, John bristles up a little more than a normal friend would. Sometimes when John actually says something intelligent, Sherlock looks at him with such a look of awe and tenderness that everyone notices. Sometimes they go to Angelo’s, and John doesn’t deny it when Angelo calls it a date.

It’s three months before John says, completely out of nowhere one day, “I changed my mind, you know.”  
Sherlock looks over at him from where he’s been lying on the couch. “Pardon?”  
“About the whole ‘not gay’ thing. I changed my mind.”  
“Ah.”  
A pause, and then John sighs. “I suppose you already knew that.”  
“I suspected. I wasn’t certain.”  
“Ok. Well. Anyway, just… just wanted you to know.”  
There is a long pause, and then Sherlock says, “John?”  
“Mmhm?”  
“Me too.”  
John glances over at him. He just looks at him for a moment, looks at him lying on the couch and looking at the ceiling, hands steepled under his chin, and then says, “Ok. All right. Good to know, I guess. Thanks for… for feeling you could tell me.”  
“Likewise.”  
And then the moment is over, and they carry on like before. And they just came out to each other, and it was so much easier than either of them thought it would be. That’s it, just a few lines of conversation punctuated by periods of silence. And it seems like nothing has changed, but in a way, almost imperceptibly, they both know it has.

It’s another month later when John is almost shot. Sherlock is beside himself.  
“Sherlock, I’m fine,” says John, as Sherlock continues to babble, asking if he’s ok and talking about the case and saying that he wishes he had the chance to kill the suspect but he thinks Lestrade is going to catch him and even if he doesn’t they know what he looks like. “Sherlock. Sherlock, calm down.”  
“How am I supposed to calm down, John? You were just nearly shot. You could have died.”  
“But I didn’t die, I’m not even injured. I could have been shot, yeah, but I wasn’t. I’m fine, Sherlock. I’m completely ok.”  
“But you could have been not fine. I don’t like that you could have been not fine. I cannot lose you, John.”  
Sherlock’s hands are on John’s shoulders, and John’s hands are on Sherlock’s wrists, and they are so close that if either of them moves they will be close enough to be kissing, and both of them are painfully aware of that fact. John swallows. “Lost without your blogger?”  
John’s tone is light and half-joking, but Sherlock’s isn’t. His hands squeeze tighter. “Lost without my friend.”  
And later, neither of them will be quite sure which of them moves, or if it’s both of them, but whoever it is, they are suddenly kissing. One of Sherlock’s hands is on the back of John’s neck, and the other is on John’s back, and John’s hands are tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and their lips are moving against each other, and their eyes are closed and this, this is what they’ve been waiting for, this is perfect, this is a kiss, this is John and Sherlock and Sherlock and John, and this is love and this is everything that they have been moving towards for so long and this is it, this is what they want, this is them. Sherlock can think of nothing but John John John John John and John can think of nothing but Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. The kiss starts out frantic and fast and passionate and desperate and deep and wild, and gradually becomes more gentle and soft and tender, and that is exactly the opposite of how these things normally work, but Sherlock and John never do anything normally, so this is just right.  
They pull apart after what could have been a few seconds but could have also been a few days. They stare at each other with wonder, like they are the singularly most amazing people in the entire world, and it is so incredibly full of humanity and sentiment and passion and love and devotion that it is almost comical to think that this is Sherlock Holmes, who is a man of logic and who has previously claimed to be a sociopath. Of course, in the moment, neither of them are thinking about that ironic side to things, because they are busy thinking about the fact that they’ve just kissed. Their cheeks are flushed and their pupils are dilated and their heart rates are elevated and Sherlock’s hair is all messed up, and if anyone were to see them, it wouldn’t take a Holmes to tell that they just kissed. After a moment of awestruck silence, John whispers, “I think people will probably talk,” and under the circumstances the statement is so ridiculous that they both dissolve into giggles that shake both of their bodies, and then they kiss again, just because they can.

Neither of them really wants to know how Mycroft knows to text Sherlock, “Congratulations,” but neither of them really cares, because an interfering brother can’t make them unhappy.

They don’t go public for a few weeks, and when they do, it’s entirely unintended. They’re working on a case, and Sherlock is stuck. John unexpectedly says, “Couldn’t it have been the janitor? He had access to the drugs, and no one ever pays attention to janitors, so he could have slipped in without anyone noticing. Then he could have just switched them, yeah? He’s got motive, because the victim was a rich fellow with no respect for anyone else, and probably was rude to the janitor on at least one occasion. The janitor was mentally ill, and it’s entirely possible that he could have totally overreacted to some offhand comment. But I remember thinking he was pretty smart, so he could have planned this.”  
Lestrade and Donovan look thoughtful, if a bit doubtful, but Sherlock stares at John. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of it? Of course. You’re brilliant, John!” Then he kisses John right on the lips, right in the middle of the Yard, surrounded by police. He pulls away quickly and grins at the paperwork in his hand. It takes a good thirty seconds for him to realize that everyone is staring at him. He seems to realize only then what he’s done, and he glances at John, looking mortified. John covers a laugh with a cough.  
“What the hell?” Anderson is the first to recover. “What was that?”  
Sherlock looks lost, and John feels that he should jump in. “That was my boyfriend kissing me,” he says. “Now, if no one has a problem with that, I think you have your murderer, so we can just be going now.”  
No one says anything, so he takes Sherlock’s hand in his and leads him away and they get a cab.

At the flat, Sherlock says, “You’re not upset, then? That they know?”  
“Of course not. They were going to find out eventually. Might as well be sooner rather than later.” Sherlock looks doubtful, and John kisses him gently. “I’m not ashamed to be with you, Sherlock. I don’t care who knows. Here.” He pulls out his laptop and quickly writes a blog entry saying that they’re dating. He turns the screen around for Sherlock to read. “This ok with you?” When Sherlock nods, he clicks “publish” and the entry is out there for everyone to read.  
“That was unnecessary,” Sherlock comments.  
“I wanted to do that soon anyway. Everyone important in our lives already knows – now that you’ve shown the Yard – but I feel like everyone else should know too. I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding this. Our fans are interested in our lives. They want to know this stuff. This – you – this is the most important thing in my life. I want people to know. I want people to see me and think, ‘That’s Sherlock Holmes’ boyfriend.’”  
“You didn’t used to want people to think that,” he remarks.  
“No, but that was before I fell in love with you.”  
Sherlock looks startled, and when John’s words catch up with him he realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever said that. “I did. Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock. Did you think this was some silly little crush? I love you.”  
“I… I’m not good at this, John.” It isn’t what he’d meant to say at all, but maybe this is more honest anyway. “I’ve never done relationships before. You might not like me much a lot of the time.”  
“I know that. I know, Sherlock. I’ve been with you for this long; I think I know what I’m getting into. I want this. I want you.” He kisses Sherlock’s cheekbone (and Irene Adler had no idea what she was talking about, you couldn’t cut yourself on that). “I love you,” he whispers.  
“I love you too,” says Sherlock, and he means it, and he wonders what on earth he did to deserve John Watson. They kiss, hands clasped, lips soft and warm against each other, tongues cautiously dancing between lips, and it’s perfect, and John doesn’t know what he did to deserve all this love, all this joy.


End file.
